A Study in Hogwarts
by Kellisina
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the brightest wizard his age. Or any age. And he has a fan who'll do anything for his attention.
1. Chapter 1

_A collab fic between myself and 'The Virtue of the Bored' (.net/u/3117037/The_Virtue_of_the_Bored) Who pretty much wrote the entire first chapter~_

_Unfortunetly we dont own Sherlock or Harry Potter, but if we did it would go like this:_

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><p>In a train station, you're always surrounded by people. Never will you encounter a time when there is silence. The people there all have business; they all have a history.<p>

The old man sitting on the bench has nowhere to go. He has no wife anymore, and can't join her just yet. Instead, he wastes his afternoons watching the trains.

The gaggles of children standing on the platform's edge were waiting for the train; the only family they know is coming back today. They've been waiting for this day for the three months she'd been gone.

And the flock of men and women in robes… well, it was obvious where they were going.

This is what Sherlock liked; he liked to deduce what was happening. He didn't see the people; he saw a spark of mystery.

People were dull; their spark was not.

His brother was definitely dull. Mycroft had been blathering on about something inane for the past ten minutes. He couldn't guarantee what, but judging by how far he was puffing out his chest, he could take a guess.

"Sherlock, I'm head boy. I can't have my brother causing more disturbances this year."

And there it was. This old tango again… Heaven forbid the eccentric younger brother of the oh-so perfect Mycroft Holmes cause a scandal.

Icy blue eyes met stormy grey. "Surprisingly, I don't aim to make anyone aware that you're my brother. I'd be happy if they thought we weren't related," Sherlock replied, casting a withering glance up at Mycroft.

Mycroft glanced up at the giant clock that hung above Platform 8 of King's Cross Station. "I have to be in the Prefect compartment—"

"You'll be sorely missed."

"—and I don't want to hear any complaints. I don't care how bored you are. You must not upset the other passengers, and do not try and corrupt the younger students. You're a Ravenclaw for pity's sake; act like one."

Sherlock smirked slightly and stepped toward the gathering congregation of teenagers. He ran a hand through his hair; his mother often remarked that his matt of obsidian locks was almost as dark as his house's name sake.

Sherlock was, after all, the quintessential Ravenclaw—quick-witted, intelligent, sharp, attentive… whereas Mycroft would have been better-suited for Slytherin. It still annoyed him that Mycroft managed to hide his true nature from the Sorting Hat. The smarmy git.

"Shouldn't we be going? I'd hate for you to miss your meeting," Sherlock said.

"You're only worrying when you're innocent. Let's go."

Without any of the hesitation of the younger students who stared at the wall of Platform 9, the Holmes brothers stepped through the passage to Platform 9 and ¾.

There was a quaint charm to the hidden platform. No matter how modern its King's Cross equivalent became, Platform 9 and ¾ would always remain the ever-constant station of a more Romanticised time, where the steam engine provided a chance for the impossible dreamers.

Sherlock would never be amongst them. He didn't have dreams. He had nightmares which transcended sleep.

"Sherlock, it's time to board," Mycroft said softly.

Nodding numbly, Sherlock stepped on the train, and far away from the front of the train; away from Mycroft. He ignored the scared looks from the younger students (he'd been reliably informed that he looked like a vengeful spectre with his pale skin and his permanent brooding expression) and the scornful glares of his class-mates. Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes.

The genius.

The prodigy.

The freak.

Stealing past the bustle of people trying to find seats, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk a little. He opened the door that would lead to the driver's compartment, and then climbed up the ladder, just as the train started to move off, the shrill shriek of the train's whistle deafening him momentarily.

It wasn't exactly first class, but at least it was quiet; peaceful; solitary.

Elsewhere, toward the front of the train, a small blond boy was peering thoughtfully in to his companion's bag, rummaging about carefully. "I can't find it," he said finally.

His friend, a much taller boy with oak coloured hair and sun-kissed skin, sighed and turn to the young girl beside him. He did a number of strange motions with his hands, each one very rapid and elaborate, but also careful and deliberate. The younger girl, who looked an awful lot like the oak-haired boy, shrugged in a rather overly flamboyant way and returned the gestures with her own, quicker signals.

"Sorry, John. Milly's sure she packed them for you," he said.

The blond boy, John Watson, smiled sweetly at Milly. "Cheers, Greg. Tell her I'm grateful?"

Greg muttered something about being used as a translator, and did the appropriate sign language. Milly beamed widely at him; even without her voice, her facial expression always told what she was thinking.

"So, captain Lestrade," John said, "How tough are you making try-outs this year? I don't think my broom can handle another try-out á la Brian."

Greg laughed boisterously. "Yeah, that was a bloody fiasco and a half. Still, it was funny watching Weasley fall over the hoop. Only he could make it look cool."

"Where is Charlie?" John asked, as though he'd just noticed the absence of the flaming ginger.

"Oh, his brothers start this year; you know…the evil twins he goes on about. Him and Percy are sitting with them to make sure nothing kicks off."

John nodded and sat back. "Right and why aren't you at the Prefect meeting?"

"And leave you with Milly? No chance, mate."

John chuckled and looked out the window. The dark clouds overhead looked heavy, angry… ready to burst at any moment.

"I still don't see why you didn't go to Diagon Alley before yesterday," Greg said, his voice doing that scolding thing it usually did when he disapproved.

"I just didn't."

"You've had all summer to do it."

"I know."

"You're the prepared one. What the hell, man? You could have walked to Hogwarts from your house."

"Yeah, funnily enough, I know."

"Then why—"

"Drop it!" John yelled, glaring at Greg.

With that outburst of unjustifiable frustration, the heavens opened, and rain fell in streams of colour. This was why John loved the rain; it was surprisingly colourful once you got past the grey sky.

Milly looked at the boys and waved her hands at them rapidly. Greg smiled and ruffled her hair. "Alright, Watson. It's a secret. I get it."

John nodded and turned to gaze out the window.

The British summer time was supposedly "delightfully dull" according to the old woman who ran the post office in the nearby Muggle town. John didn't see that. He adored the rain, but didn't think it had any right to overcast his summer. Maybe he should move away after Hogwarts; somewhere sunny, and warm; somewhere with excitement.

They sat like that for a while, conversing about everything and nothing. Milly left at some point to change in to her Slytherin uniform, leaving the boys alone for a good ten minutes.

"Congrats on making Prefect," John said, sporting his trademark lop-sided grin.

"Yeah, just what I needed; more stuff to worry about," Greg huffed, throwing himself back on the chair.


	2. Chapter 2

_So... Me and my partner-in-crime should probably apologise for such a delay. I just got access to my old computer and found the chapters that we never uploaded...Enjoy! :D _

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><p>The first lesson of the year was not going so well….<p>

Where in god's name was John supposed to find a partner?

The boy sat alone in the centre of the room. How had he not noticed by now? He didn't know a single person in this class. He glared daggers at the frizzy haired professor, who was currently sitting at her desk, predicting the grades of her students through tealeaves. He sighed and dragged himself up from his seat, in a vain attempt to find a partner for the year. By the looks of things, everyone had already partnered off. Wonderful. He groaned in resignation. Clearly, this year was going to suck.

That was when he noticed a lone figure, crouched over a table in the corner of the room, reading the class text book by the look of things. John walked over to the boy nervously. He was bizarrely pale, with jet black hair hanging in loose curls which concealed his eyes. A blue and silver tie hung loosely from the boys' neck, marking him out as a Ravenclaw. John cleared his throat, but the boy didn't look.

"Hi….I'm John. John Wa-"

"John Watson." Interrupted the strange boy, without taking his eyes off the text. "I know."

John frowned. "…how did you know?"

The boys sighed and looked up; his piercing green eyes staring at him, a slight smirk crossed his face. "I know that your full name is John H. Watson. Obviously you're a sixth year Gryffindor. You've previously been the chaser for your houses quidditch team, with intentions of continuing the role this year. You're muggle born, and you family has a rather abysmal income, judging by your hand-me-down robes. Which I can attain previously belonged to your older sister, because of the stretch marks around the chest area."

For a moment, John was speechless. "How is it that you know all of this stuff about me, but I don't know a single thing about you?"

The boy's smirk turned into a grin. "Because John, you see but you don't observe."

The mysterious boy closed his book, giving John his full attention. "So. I suppose were to be partners now. Sit down." It sounded more like an order than a request, but regardless, John took the seat next to his new partner. "The names Sherlock by the way. Sherlock Holmes."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." John replied, more out of habit than anything. Sherlock didn't respond; he was simply gazing absent mindedly at a set of crystals hanging from the window. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "…That was amazing by the way."

A look of total confusion crossed Sherlock's face. "What?"

"That. That whole thing you did was…amazing."

"Really? That not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

" 'Professor, the freaks doing it again' "

John didn't know whether to laugh or feel pity for the strange boy, thankfully his train of thought was interrupted as Professor Trewlaney began her lesson. As she described the importance of dreams as a representation of the soul, Sherlock leaned over and whispered into the ear of his partner. "It's a whole load of rot you know. Dreams are illogical; they can't be interpreted as a form of prophecy. It's a ridiculous notion."

John stiffened as he felt Sherlock's breath down his neck; he refused to let it bother him and simply leaned back. "If you dislike it so much then why take the lesson?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"Too prove a point."

"And what would that be?"

"…that I don't live in my brothers' shadow."

John was about to question the ominous response, but he was interrupted a second time by the bespeckled professor who handed them both Dream Journals, to keep for the next few months.

"Wonderful." John heard Sherlock mutter, as he threw the journal into his satchel.

Sherlock was silent for most of the lesson. When John was frantically scribbling notes of dream interpretation, Sherlock was just watching. Watching the professor, watching his classmates, but more often than not, it was John he was watching. John could see Sherlock staring at him out of the corner of his eye, and frankly it was starting to creep him out. Eventually, John cracked:

"Why aren't you taking notes?"

"Don't need to." Sherlock replied simply.

"But….why not? Don't you think Trewlaney will be mad?"

"Me and the professors have an….understanding. Besides, I have a photographic memory. It makes taking notes a rather pointless task. Don't you think?"

"Er…I guess so."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for the rest of the lesson.

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><p>"No, Lestrade. He was just a bit….strange."<p>

Lestrade casually leaned over John, grabbing a bread roll from the wicker basket in front of him. "Well" He begun, as he took a bite. "Can't you just ask the professor for a different partner?"

"But that seems rude…besides, everyone else in the class already has a partner."

"I wish I could help you mate. But it looks like you're stuck with him for the year. What was his name again?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Holmes?"

"Yeah, why? Ring a bell?"

"Yeah but….Hey, there's Milly. I'm gonna go say hi okay?"

"Sure." He replied, as Lestrade walked over to the Slytherin table. It wasn't unusual for him to split his lunch between sitting with John at the Gryffindor table, and spending time with his cousin.

John continued eating his lunch in silence, occasionally speaking to the Weasley brothers, Charlie and Percy, who were warning the Gryffindors about the dangers of their twin brothers.

John jumped as someone abruptly sat down beside him. He lifted his head to find Sherlock next to him, surveying the food with a look of pure distain.

"Er….hello?"

"Hello again, John."

"….What -?"

"My brother says I have to eat lunch today. However, the company on the Ravenclaw table is less than satisfactory, so I thought I'd eat here instead."

"… Alright then, I don't mind."

John tried to think of something to say to the odd Ravenclaw, but was drawing a blank. He looked over to find that Sherlock's plate was still empty, and instead of eating, the boy was simply watching the other students. His eyes flickered from table to table, as though he was trying to figure out something important. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.

"What are you looking at?"

Sherlock blinked, a confused look on his face, looking as though he had just been woken from a trance. "…Nothing in particular."

"Now, now, Shirley. We both know that's not true."

Both boys looked up, John looking startled and Sherlock glowering. The owner of that soft, almost sickeningly feminine voice was a tall, tanned Ravenclaw girl. Her dark brown hair hanging in loose curls which she flicked over her shoulder as she crossed her arms and leaned towards Sherlock, a smirk on her lipstick smeared lips.

She took the seat opposite them, the seat Greg had only just left. "When he has that particular look on his face, it means that he's just worked out something interesting."

John raised an eyebrow, addressing Sherlock "Who's this?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"The Woman." Sherlock replied simply, still glaring intensely.

"… Does she have a name?"

"More than likely. I believe that's the norm."

'The Woman' laughed, a smug sound which John instantly hated. "Oh Sherlock, honey. You know you're only bitter because of the OWL results. The fact that I beat you in Astronomy must-"

"I'm doing ALL of the NEWTS this year. One minor imperfection won't bother me."

"And you'll still barely pass Astronomy." She turned her attention to John. "The name's Irene, handsome. Irene Adler."

"H-Hi," stammered John, not used to female attention.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ignore her. I hear these sorts tend to get bored without an audience."

Irene winked as she got up from the table, blowing a kiss towards Sherlock. "Ciao honey."

Sherlock glared at the girl as she returned to the Ravenclaw table. "I told you."

"She seems nice. A friend of yours?"

"No. I don't do those."

"Oh. Right… girlfriend? She was flirting with you an awful lot."

Sherlock openly winced, something that seemed almost too theatrical for the otherwise icy boy. "No. Definitely not. Not really my area."

"Oh." John looked down, blushing slightly. He had never met… someone like that before. "S-so… no girls?"

"No. They're annoying. Especially her; the heinous whore."

John giggled into his soup. Wait, what? He didn't giggle. Since when did he start giggling?

Sherlock seemed pleased by this, and he finally grabbed a roll of bread. "It's no good, Watson. It's too quiet. We need adventure."

"We?"

"Yes. We."


End file.
